


Sleep and his half-brother Death

by Blanquette



Series: Stopping time [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before Stopping Time, how Steve came to know about the clocks.<br/>Title is from a painting by John William Waterhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep and his half-brother Death

**Author's Note:**

> Dusting off Stopping Time made me think about this universe again, then I remembered the painting while listening to a requiem (my Sunday nights are WILD) and this came about. I mostly blame boredom.  
> No one actually dies in this thing but Bucky is indeed dying.

 

-You followin' yeah? So you just need to rewind the thing and time stops. For all the duration of the ticking. You can do whatever you want nothing's gonna change, like you wanna kiss your girl for a century? Fuckin' do it.  
-I don't think any clock can tick for a century. Even a magic one. Plus you would probably get really sore.

The older guy waves an irritated hand in the air.

-What do you know 'bout magic clocks uh? I'm tellin' ya. Get your hands on one of this things you'll see.

The younger one smirks a little, hunches a bit on his drink and seems to think for a second. But then he shakes his head, downs the last of his liquor and stands up, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

-You're the one not ticking right. Why the hell would I want to stop time, to marvel at how shitty everything is? Life's life because it's fleeting moments. Fixed things are dead. I'm not interested. See ya.

Leaving the bar the guy brushes against Steve's shoulder and it makes him shudder. He had been listening in on the conversation for a while now, his gaze lost in the amber of his drink. Fixed things are dead. He knows that. In his head is constantly playing another kind of ticking, the one made by a machine somewhere in a hospital, and his own life has been hanging from it ever since, and he had been watching death crawl inside the limbs of this guy named James, and he feels it in his own mind, clawing at his brain like a hungry animal. Yesterday there was still hope and this morning there wasn't anymore.

He feels pressure on his hand and he reminds himself he's not alone, someone is talking to him, and he needs to answer, make any kind of reaction that shows he's not free falling. So he smiles and says yes.

-I wasn't even asking you anything, are you alright?

He doesn't state the obvious because of course he's not, James is dying, but Natasha knows that, everyone does, so he merely nods his head.

-Sorry. Got lost in thoughts.

She pursue her lips, tucks her hair behind her ears, and launches herself in something but Steve is already not listening. Behind her is a reproduction of a painting he knows. Sleep is resting his head on Death's shoulder and they look so peaceful. Sleep cradles flowers in his lap and Death has his hand affectionately circling behind his half-brother's back. There was life before, the music instruments scattered around them there to prove it, but it is gone now, they are alone, at peace, restful. The real-life inspirations died of tuberculosis, he knows that at the back of his head, and he feels strangely comforted by it. Beauty and peace can stem from death too, and it's decided then. The old man is still behind him, he can hear him thumping slowly on the table a rhythm that makes sense only to him. Steve slowly finishes his drink, detaches forcibly his eyes from the painting and asks Natasha to wait. She doesn't say anything.

When Steve goes and sits in front of the old man, he lifts his head abruptly, alcohol making his eyelids heavy.

-Waddaya want?  
-I heard you talking about the clocks.

The man eyes him warily for what seems like an eternity, his hands like claws circling his now empty glass. He seems to come to some sort of conclusion that must satisfy him, as he slowly nods his head and hunches like a conspirator towards Steve. He speaks, and his breath smells like alcohol and death.

-You can find the shop, if you must. Or really, it will find you. You look desperate enough as I see it.  
-Where?  
-Mh, I'll say, you go behind the theater, you know, the street with all those posh antiquities shops. It'll be there.  
-Which number?  
-You'll know when you see it. It's kind of there, you know.

Steve doesn't really but the old man is unsettling, so he doesn't push it. Then as he gets up, the man grabs his arm, a strange look in his face.

-What are you gonna do with that clock, if ya don't mind tellin' me?

Steve hesitates at first, his eyes drifting back to the painting. And then he knows.

-I will be Sleep, and he will be Death.


End file.
